Real Cops
by Simon920
Summary: A Gotham policeman has an issue with Robin.


Disclaimers: These guys aren't mine, they don't belong to me, worst luck, so don't bother me.

Archive: Fine, but if you want it, please ask first.

Feedback: Hell, yes.

_**Real **_**Cops...**

Chris tried to get through the main hallway, tried to get out the front door. His shift was over three hours ago and he should be home by now, watching the game and drinking the one beer he allowed himself after a particularly rough day.

No such luck. Not today.

The place was jammed, packed to the rafters by reporters, cameras and gawkers trying to horn in on Robin's latest press conference, the kid knocking out answers to question after stupid question about the morning's bust. Yeah, sure the kid did the leg work, set up the sting, gained the drug importer's trust, arranged the back up and then sprung the trap himself but this was ridiculous. The entire first floor of the station, as well as the sidewalk leading to the damn front door were a solid wall of reporters and god knew who else—mostly teenaged girls, judging by the screams.

If there was a fire they'd all be dead..

"How much cocaine was found?"

"Almost twelve thousand keys of pharmaceutical grade coke."

"The commissionor said that's the largest single haul in history, at least so far as any of us can tell; what's the street value?"

The kid shrugged and smiled, "I dunno, a lot." And that brought the expected laugh, of course. And, man oh man, was he basking in the glory, just sitting there with this BS modest look on his face. "The GPD did a lot, the bust wouldn't have happened without them and that's a fact. It wasn't just me, I didn't do this alone."

Uh-huh, sure, kid. You keep saying that and maybe someday someone will believe you. Not me, but someone might.

"Excuse me, coming through, behind you. Excuse me." Good, he was out the door, through the crowd and half way up the street to the precinct parking lot when some blonde bimbo reporter stuck a mic in his face. "Hi, would you mind if I asked you a few questions about today's drug raid? You were there, right? I saw you leading in a couple of the suspects; that was you, wasn't it?"

"Yeah, yes, that was me, me and a few of the other guys."

"Was Robin really the one who set all this up?"

"He did most of the..."

"I mean, wasn't he the one who was really the kingpin for this? He came in with the initial lead and followed through with it until we had today's arrests, right?"

Chris nodded reluctantly, not like anyone would believe anything different with Boy Wonder sitting over there, acting like all he wanted was to get outta here. "It wouldn't have happened without him."

Jerk kid.

"So you'd agree that GPD is lucky to have him on our side?"

"'Sure are, if you'll excuse me..."

The woman turned full face back to the camera. "There you have it. Today Robin, with help from the local police, shut down one of the biggest drug importers on the East Coast. Back to you, John."

Chris sat in his car, waiting for one of the news vans to move their ass so he could get out of the lot. It was always like this, well since the kid came on board, anyway. Fifteen years old and he could write his own ticket, Gordon acted like he was his long lost son and last week there was even that article in the paper about the brat being wined and dined at frigging Wayne Headquarters by old Bruce himself.

Everyone loved the kid, you couldn't walk in the locker room without seeing his damn picture on the bulletin board and if two days went by without someone talking about how they wished their own kids were more like him it was a week without sunshine.

Christ.

And the pisser was that he wasn't even a real cop, he was just a kid, a punk kid who got lucky more often than he had a right to and that was the damn truth.

He thought about it on the ride home, during dinner and later that night in bed with his wife sleeping beside him.

He thought about it during breakfast and on his ride in the next morning and he thought about it in the locker room, listening to the other guys talking about the Batbrat, singing his praises.

It was getting old fast.

Whatever. There wasn't like there was anything he could do about it, right? As far as Gordon and the press were concerned, the kid's shit didn't stink but man, try working with the elephant in the room. Sure, he was polite and paid lip service to asking the older men their opinions and stuff, but, crap—you knew he was just playing the game and he really thought they were a bunch of idiots put on this earth to serve him coffee. If he drank coffee.

"Whassup, Chris, somebody stomp on your puppy?"

"I'd know a puppy who could use a good stomping."

"Sounds like you got up on the wrong side of the bed, as my old granny would say. Something bothering you?"

"Nah, just a rainy day; anyone ever tell you old granny was an ass?"

"All the time. 'Later."

Ten minutes later at the morning briefing the Lieutenant started with the usual, "All right, all right, quiet down boys and girls. First up, the rain is causing a lot of traffic problems so be prepared. Next, there was serious gang activity last night over at Old Gotham High so Lou and Marcy—you follow up there and Steve and Chuck are assigned to the school today to be a presence. I've also posted the list of cars working the escort from the airport for the President this afternoon, so check the board. Any questions?"

"Any followup on that drug bust?"

"Talk to me after, Chris. Nothing else? Okay, look out for each other out there."

Chris waited until the room cleared then walked up to the front of the room. "You wanted to talk to me, Lieutenant?"

"Yeah, Robin was saying that you played a bigger part in the collar than we thought; the Captain is putting you in for a commendation in the next round." The man gave him one of his rare smiles, the Lieutenant wasn't a smiley kind of guy.

"The Captain said that?"

"Based on what Robin told him, yeah. He also said that he'd work with you anytime."

"Robin said that?"

"'Heard it with my own ears." He picked up his clipboard and started out he door. "You're on the President's motorcade later, make sure your car is washed."

"Yessir." The kid spoke up for him with the Captain? 'Didn't make sense, why would he do that? It wasn't like he'd really done all that much unless—maybe he'd picked up that Chris didn't like him but...why would he care? He didn't have to do that; 'must have something in mind, maybe a favor or something but what kind of favor could Robin want from _him_?

Strange, 'didn't make sense. 'Kid probably had an agenda, that's all.

* * *

Things rolled along without any major bumps for a few months. Chris went to the station, worked his shifts, made the usual arrests, directed traffic, sat through boring stakeouts and sometimes enjoyed his job. The commendation for 'Meritorious Service' came through a couple of months after the big drug bust and he stood in line as the Mayor pinned a medal on his chest while a small crowd, including his wife and kids watched with varying degrees of pride and boredom.

Then later Ben walked over; "Hey, Chris, your friend Robin is inside talking with Gordon, you wanna say hello when he's done?"

"Bite me, O'Malley."

O'Malley looked a little hurt. "What? I thought you two worked together sometimes."

Chris kept walking back to the locker room; 'worked with the kid'? Yeah, right. Worked _for _the kid when he deigned to acknowledge that he wasn't always the complete Boy Wonder and needed a hand from the grownups, was more like it.

O'Malley caught up with him. "What? I've always heard that he was easy to work with, a good kid—I mean aside from the whole him being Batman's right hand and Gordon's fair-haired favorite. What, he isn't?"

"What, nice?"

"Yeah."

Chris couldn't friggin believe this. "He's fine, good manners, 'says please and thank you. Okay?"

"And?"

"And nothing, the kid's good, he's earned everything even if he is like fifteen years old and makes the rest of us look like idiots."

Ben stopped for a moment. "'Sounds to me like you're jealous, man. A fifteen year old has you whipped, 'that it?"

Chris bit his tongue, pressed his lips together and shook his head. He'd been a cop for seventeen years, longer than the kid had been breathing air and he was working for the kid? He was supposed to follow his lead, let him call the shots on cases and then grab the headlines and the glory? It was PR, plain and simple and, sure, it got attention and the Mayor even allotted extra money because the kid said something about the widows and kids but—crap. It took a high school sophomore (or whatever he was) to get the extra bucks? That was bullshit, plain and simple.

"'C'mon, man, he gets things done, you know he does."

"Yeah, he gets things done, all right." And gets all the pats on the back and job offers to prove it.

* * *

Three months later there was rumors of a large arms shipment being smuggled through Port Gotham, hidden in one of twenty-five hundred ship containers stored near the docks. The weapons, ranging from small arms to napalm canisters, landmines, rocket launchers complete with thousands of rounds of ammunition as well as possible biological weapons. They needed to be identified and stopped before they could get to the buyers. The sellers, the arms dealers needed to be caught and upcoming shipments—supposedly two or three a week from Gotham alone, needed to be ended.

Both Batman and Robin had been working on the case and were ready to make the bust and had asked Gordon for backup, simply because they knew that several different groups of dealers wold be involved and would have numerous hirelings there to pick up various orders. The ordinance would involve truck loads, not car fulls and lots of them.

Chris was, of course, one of the GPD men brought in for the bust. "Robin asked for you specially, the boy knows a good man when he sees one and wanted to make sure that you'd have their backs. Prepare to be called later this evening or early tomorrow."

"Thank you, sir, I'm honored to be included." Yeah, right. Another back up position, another press conference when he'd be standing in the back of the room or getting coffee for the big boys while a fifteen year old made the headlines again.

His wife knew how the whole situation rubbed him wrong and she tried, she really did. "But sweetheart, I know it's frustrating for you, but what you do is important and you do your job so well—everyone knows it. That's why Robin himself asked for you by name. It's a compliment."

He nodded. Sure, Nancy meant well, but she just didn't understand. She'd never had to answer questions from some wet behind the ears reporter about a kid young enough to be his son and sure as hell never had to take orders from him. Nice kid? Sure he was. Galling? You bet.

But the call didn't come that afternoon or that evening. He was supposed to have the next day off and waited around to go in, wasting his free time and getting more pissed by the minute. 'Arrogant little snot—he needs to clue in that the entire world doesn't turn on his schedule.' Lunch came and went, so did dinner with no word. But then settling in, watching the late news at eleven...holy shit.

"_There has been an outpouring of disappointment following the reckless driving ticket Robin received tonight. (Cut to film bites of concerned parents.) 'I just never thought he'd—you know, he's supposed to a role model and here he is getting caught driving just like any other out of control kid.' Man, when I saw Robin's mug shot—talk about bizarro, right?' (Cut back to talking head.) We've been told that there will be a statement at a press conference tomorrow. Stay with us at this channel for live coverage of that in twenty-five minutes."

* * *

_

The glares and silence had been going on for almost twenty-four hours and Dick had enough. He'd made a mistake, sure, but he hadn't killed anyone or anything. _Lighten up_. "Oh, c'mon, Bruce. It's not that big a deal. It's just a ticket."

"In fact, it's a very big deal when Robin is arrested and his mug shot is plastered across every available media outlet."

"I wasn't fingerprinted."

"Something you may thank Jim Gordon for and which will open another media onslaught as soon as the press realizes that you were given preferential treatment."

Robin sighed in exasperation. It wasn't a big deal, it just _wasn't_. He'd been on his way back to the cave, headed to Kane Memorial Bridge.

_Everyone _got speeding tickets. It was practically a rite of passage when you get your license.

He wasn't even going that fast, f'the love of...well, okay, yeah he was. He was doing like seventy-five in a twenty-five mile and hour zone, but it was late and the road was clear. The whole thing was lame. It wasn't even raining or anything. And the truth was that he was trying to get home so that he could do his stupid homework—something Bruce insisted on if Robin was to keep flying and there were only so many hours in a day, okay?

"Fine. So what am I supposed to do now?"

"There'll be a press conference tomorrow morning, you'll make your apologies, let everyone know that you're sorry, it won't happen again and then make _sure_ that it doesn't happen again."

"Oh, come _on_..."

"'Don't even try."

"Bruce, seriously..."

Batman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, every line of his body radiating anger. "I assume that I don't have to remind you that, as the leader of the Titans, my sidekick and an internationally known member of the hero community, you have responsibilities and obligations which you're expected to uphold."

"I know that, but..."

"In addition, you are, whether you like it or not, a role model for uncounted thousands, millions of young people all over the world and this is exactly the sort of thing guaranteed to invite massive criticism and censure of not just you, but of everyone who is involved in crime fighting, especially costumed heroes."

"Yes, but..."

"And so you will make amends. Tomorrow morning. You will be sufficiently apologetic, contrite and you will accept whatever is deemed appropriate punishment by the courts. Is that understood?"

The boy nodded mutely. "What about that arms bust I was supposed to lead tonight?" Like that wasn't a little higher on the priority list than a stupid traffic ticket where no one was hurt? Seriously.

"You have responsibilities, this doesn't affect anything." A beat. "And make sure that this _doesn't _affect anything."

"Fine."

There was nothing more to be said.

* * *

Then there was the appearance in traffic court. Instead of the usual few weeks, he'd been scheduled for two days. Great.

Horseshit, the whole thing was horseshit.

The court thing, cripes; that had been bad enough. There'd been like fifty reporters there and a gauntlet of press to get into the building; the local cops had to give him an escort do that he could get to the door. You'd have thought that he was serial killer or child molester or something from the coverage he was getting. Then the judge had spent at least ten solid minutes lecturing him about his 'status as a role model' and the responsibilities that entailed. He was half afraid that he was going to be sentenced to personally apologize to every kid on the planet.

It wasn't quite that bad but it may as well have been, he was supposed to make three separate appearances at local schools to talk about his screw up and how no one should ever, ever do what he did.

Then, the kicker; "I would normally order a young person who'd been found guilty of extreme speeding in a residential zone—as you were—to tour the local emergency ward and speak to crash victims, possibly add public service with Mothers Against Drunk Driving..."

"I wasn't drunk, Your Honor..."

"I'm aware of that, young man, but the arrogance of the level of disregard for the local laws and the sense of entitlement, combined with your high public profile warrants that our restitution be equally public. I order that you submit to fifty hours of community service picking up trash by the side of the local roadways."

Robin's heart sank. Picking up trash, part of the SLAP program (_Sheriff's_ Labor Assistance Program*), wearing a day-glo orange vest along with twenty or thirty other minor offenders walking along some highway where every paparazzi on the planet would be stationed to take pictures to sell to every tabloid on the planet.

Leaving the courthouse, Robin needed a police escort to get through the crowd of reporters and fan, protesters and sightseers. The sidewalk was a solid mass of bodies and the streets clogged with TV trucks.

Chris saw the scene on a TV in the station lounge. Stupid kid; he was driving when he was too young, he was driving not just too fast, but _way the hell too fast _and he was a media magnet. What did he expect?

Fifteen years old. The kid should be playing baseball or chasing girls. That's what kids were supposed to be doing, not getting shot at and directing police busts.

Christ. If Robin were one of his kids, if one of his kids even thought about asking to do that shit—well, he'd put the lid on that pretty damn fast, thank you.

"Sullivan, you finish those reports yet?"

"I'm on it, Sarge."

* * *

Chris got the call a few minutes before four-thirty the next morning. "Okay, it's on. Be at the station, dressed and ready to go in an hour."

"I'm on my way."

"You have to go in _now_?" His wife was still half asleep but she knew what calls like this meant.

"Someone called in sick." Security; civilians didn't have to know.

"Do you have time for breakfast?"

"Not today. I'll have something at the station."

"Be careful." She was almost asleep again.

He kissed her forehead. "'Always am."

A little while later he was sitting in the briefing room with the other thirty-five officers who'd be bringing up the rear on this outing, listening to Robin give them the run down of what they expected to happen.

"Batman will be in position, I'll go in right behind him but will make my entrance from the roof. There's a good chance that we'll be using tear gas, so be prepared for that. Also we expect that the importers will be heavily armed and will have at least a dozen armed guards posted so keep your heads down and be sure that everyone has on their vests." He looked at the projection screen where a floor plan of the warehouse was displayed. "The main doors are here, on the side by the dock. Assume that they'll be locked and ..."

The briefing took about fifteen minutes, there were no questions. Without drama or chatter, everyone left to take up their assigned positions.

The men and women moved out, everyone knowing exactly where they were supposed to go and what they were supposed to do once they got there.

In the end the raid was surprisingly easy because Batman and Robin had laid all the groundwork, had everything organized, ready to go and knew everything there was to know about both their adversaries and their plans. The only part that got a little dicey was when two of the bad guy's guards started shooting any and every shadow in an effort to escape. Robin jump lined in and turned what Chris would later swear was a triple somersault as he tackled them from behind just as the lead man took aim at Chris' position beside one of the squad cars. Okay, he was wearing his vest but, crap, an Uzi would hurt, no matter what you were wearing to stop the bullets.

The kid saved his ass.

His terse "Thanks" was met by the barest of nods and a quick "'You okay?" followed by another quick nod as the kid moved on to help his boss with the clean up. "We have seven down inside, help round them up".

That was it; no one was hurt, the weapons cache, the largest haul in the city's history, was taken in for evidence and, with any luck, the dealers would actually see jail time. Maybe.

It took less than an hour from start to finish, a testament to the detective work and organization of the team leader, Robin who, with some embarrassment, insisted that the credit should go to Batman and the GCPD, all he'd done was to make a few suggestions.

No one said anything about the reckless driving thing hanging in the air until Bozeman, the jerk, decided to rag the kid back at the station.

"So, Robbie (he hated the nickname unless it came from his friends), who'd you pay off to get a license early, huh? Gordon know about that?" The boy looked but didn't say anything. "C'mon, the Mayor know? He's got a reelection campaign coming up, 'think someone can make some points with favoritism charges? You wouldn't want to get in the middle of that, would you?"

Robin tried to leave, making a detour around Bozeman but stopped when he felt a hand on his bicep. "Let me through."

Hernandez chimed in as well, the idiot. "What? You like it when you're in the papers making some big arrest but have a problem when you're in for screwing up?"

"Let go of my arm." He'd had enough, anyone could see it but was making a real attempt at keeping his voice even. Successful major raid or not, he still had to do that press conference in a little while to address the criticism about his stupid speeding ticket—which was getting more publicity than an arrest of major arms dealers. And he had a history test he hadn't had time to study for after lunch, too. Sure, he'd pass it all right, but...Cripes.

"You're fine dishing it out but when the shoe's on the other foot it ain't as much fun, huh?"

Chris didn't like the way this was going. "Leave him alone, man. It's been a long night." And Robin preventing his being shot was still fresh in his mind, thanks.

"Butt out Sullivan, no one's talking to you."

Oh, f'chrissake. "That's enough; leave him alone." He was standing beside the other two, all six foot three inches of him, looking down on five foot eight Bozeman. "Let him go and get changed, your shift is over."

"I don't answer to you." Bluster, he was trying to brazen his way out of what had escalated into an awkward stalemate. A long few moments and he released Robin's arm. "Yeah, I've gotta good woman waiting for me at home. See you losers tomorrow." As soon as he was out the door the tension in the room evaporated, turned into unexpressed relief nothing nasty had happened, the other officers breaking up and headed back home or to finish out their shifts. A few slapped Robin on the back as they passed, the kid was well liked and respected, despite the occasional idiots. He waited by the door, offering congratulations on a job well done as the other officers filed out.

Finally, alone with Chris he nodded, "Thanks for saying something."

"No problem; besides, you saved my ass back there."

A shrug. "Not really."

The Sergeant stuck his head in, "Robin? That press conference is ready down at the main headquarters.

Robin nodded. Of course, because the main building had a bigger conference/press room and the more the merrier. Great.

It was clear that he wanted to run out the back door but, instead the boy took a breath and nodded, this was not an easy day.

"'C'mon, kid." Chris went with him.

* * *

The press conference.

It was a combination between a controlled feeding frenzy and a sympathy party for a genuinely beloved and very young hero. In and of itself it wasn't that big a deal. No, the kid shouldn't have been driving so fast and he admitted it with an apology—no brainer, right?—but it wasn't like he'd killed anyone or even gotten into an accident. He drove too fast, he did. He was wrong to do it and he'd be raked over the coals for it in the press and then have it on his record, officially or otherwise, for years.

None of that changed the fact that the kid was a better cop at fifteen than just about anyone any of them knew.

The frenzy was controlled because it was held at police headquarters and the room was thick with cops wanting to make sure no one tried to ambush Robin. The officers tended to feel protective about him, many had kids of their own and, on top of that, he was the best of the best. He was good at what he did and made their jobs easier. Plus he was the go between between the department and Batman since he was about the only one who could deal with the Bat and walk away not feeling like he'd been flayed.

"Robin, how do you justify driving at fifteen when the legal age is sixteen for a learner's permit and seventeen for a real license?"

"I shouldn't have been driving, I guess." His voice was quiet and subdued, his usual enthusiasm dulled to nothing.

Chris shook his head in the back of the room. Yeah, sure, that was a stretch too but, c'mon, what was he supposed to do? Ride his bike to a stakeout? Maybe he was supposed to take a cab? Ask his mother for a ride?

"Where will you do the SLAP time?"

"Wherever I'm sent. It's not my choice."

Fifteen or not, the kid was a cop and one of the best. Cut him some slack, okay?

* * *

Two hours later Chris went to the locker room to change into his civvies. The room was quiet, it was mid-shift, and so he was surprised to see Robin sitting quietly in the old arm chair in the corner. The kid was alone, looking out the window, thinking, from the looks of it. He was going to ignore him, leave the kid alone when, ah, what the hell.

"'You okay?"

Robin turned his head and managed a half smile before turning back to the window. "Yeah, fine, thanks."

Pulling a clean shirt from his locker, Chris started changing. "That was some mess at the courthouse the other day—was the press conference any better?"

"Yeah. No. The court hearing was closed so I had to go through it all over again, at least the basics, anyway."

"I never did hear what the judge decided, 'you set down from police work?"

"No, just have to do the SLAP time and I'm good."

"How come the judge didn't say anything about you driving when you're underage? Gordon say something to him or something?"

"I have special permission, a special license. I showed it in court so that was a non-issue but the reporters all seemed to jump on the 'special privileges bandwagon."

Chris nodded. Figured. People like Robin skirted the rules and made their own all the time, No one cared—well, almost no one, anyway. Clean shirt on, he pulled out his slacks, swopped them for the police issue ones as Robin stood up. "I have to get home, the crowd should be down by now."

Poor kid, he was probably going to have his head handed to him when he got home if his house was anything like the one he'd grown up in—flunk a test, smart mouth Mom, forget to take out the trash and you ate standing up for two days. "You have a ride or do you need one?"

The boy made eye contact for the first time. "I guess, ah, I mean—maybe I can call someone, a friend or someone." He shrugged. "I left my bike at the courthouse, 'didn't think I'd be able ton get it through the people. I can get a cab over there."

"Don't be dumb, kid. C'mon."

* * *

Six months later Chris put in for transfer to Metropolis. It was reviewed and granted without loss of seniority. While he and his wife were packing up the accumulation of twenty years in the same house they talked.

"But I still don't understand, Chris, _why _are we moving? You were born here, you always said how much you loved your job. I don't understand."

"I need a change, okay?" He softened. "Look, I know you don't want to do this but it's best. I can't explain it any better than that."

She was holding one of the kids christening gowns. "Our parents lived here, all our family, all our friends are here. I thought we'd always live here. I just don't understand."

"It's for the best."

That night Chris had a dream, he was working some bust near the Tricorner Yards, working back up for Batman and Robin. There was an explosion, gunshots, an fire so real he could feel the heat and hear the flames crackling, roaring and saw the light against the city sky.

Robin shot off a line, tried to escape the inferno but the flames burned through his line; Chris watched him fall. He was the first to reach the kid lying on the rock hard, dirty asphalt. He was bloody, broken, dead.

Jerking awake, he stared at the ceiling before reassuring himself with the warmth of his wife beside him. It wasn't real, it hadn't happened.

Yet.

That was the real reason he was leaving Gotham. The reason he wouldn't admit to anyone.

The kid, Robin—it was inevitable. It was going to happen and he didn't want to be there when he was killed.

_*____Sheriff's__ Labor Assistance Program (SLAP) is a work program for minor offenders. This program is an alternative to incarceration where Superior and Municipal Court Judges have the latitude of sentencing non-violent offenders to work details supervised by the Sheriff's Office. Program participants are carefully screened and must meet stringent eligibility requirements._

_The benefits SLAP offers to both society and the offender are readily apparent. Government saves the cost of incarceration, up to $200.00 per day while the offender works off his debt to society. The offender benefits because he is able to keep his job and remain at home with his family instead of experiencing an unproductive period of incarceration._

6/12/10


End file.
